There were things we could not find the words for. A mastery of leaning into. Though I cannot say I didn’t try, didn’t try to immobilize, though the dusk always called for it, in its one’s and two’s. It is always ******* of sunlight, always ******* of cornflower blue. At the moment, it is eating off the shores of Northern and Southerly. At the moment it is slick in regret, in paradigm of what was and wasn’t said. Tomorrow it will eat off the coast of tempestuous Eros. It will churn in spoil. The weather will be asking for injury by this rose hour that makes your face glow now, regrettably and earnestly. Wanton will be swimming in the shallows, coated in oil and gloating in the fat of Mercury. The seals will be loose jawed and whorish tonight and prime their grey bodies amongst the sand. It was true, you know, how we would embed it. In the coffee we would see our past lovers. Too much cream, this time. Too much silt, the other. The adjustment of bathroom soap collected a solicit slough of how permissible became habitual. Now yellow, now how obtuse you are, placing the teapot this way, not that. This time the ocean will become other and it will forget. It is migrating deeper now, to the other blue. Feasts are off course, elsewise the ocean flacks and mist creates you. You now, always blissfully aware. Always pardoning yourself as the sunset flocks off in orange claps towards dawn black horizon. She is not there. She has never been there. By morning you will be bones and it will have feasted on forgotten.